I just want him.
“More, please.”
I’m rolled, the creak of the bed frame alerting me to the movement rather than the action itself. I’m too immersed in him to know where I am or what I’m doing, but the sudden wrenching of my hand up to the headboard makes me gasp in surprise. Metal clicks so quickly I hardly recognise the sound, barely registering it while his other hand still works his fingers harder inside me. It’s so forceful it directs my attention straight back to it, my arse still grinding against it as he manoeuvres my other hand to another cuff and drags his teeth up my lacerated back again. My yelled shout echoes in the room, somehow hastening the thought of orgasm as I keep chasing it.
“Oh God, please…” Fuck, I want him inside me. That’s it. That’s all.
My wrists rattle the cuffs as he shoves me forward, causing a sense of disorientation to creep in and focus me back on being bound to something, but his scent drifting by soon makes me greedy for him again. It’s heavy, rich, as dense as he is and somehow drenched in a primitive intoxication, one that feeds me with the need to give in, give up. Submit.
“Make yourself come,” he says quietly, pulling his thumb from my pussy and asking me to grind on nothing but his finger. And just as I begin questioning the thought, just as I start letting my mind evade his wishes, his hand slaps my battered skin. The first lands sharply, making me gasp in surprise. The second lands so heavily my hands wrench me to the headboard to get away from it, shards of pain firing across my back. My eyes fly open, the sensation making me bellow out against it and scratch into anything I can grab on to.
“See how much you enjoy it? Use the pain. Fuck yourself with it,” he says as he sinks another finger inside me, widening me further and licking across the very place he’s just slapped. It increases my frenzy, enough so that I grate his finger in deeper, sensing the stretch and not caring for the pain associated, welcoming it even. The third smack is delivered harder still, making tears prick my eyes as I pitch forward once more. He just increases his force behind me, his other hand wrapping around my hips to hold me in place and making me question why any of this feels right. It does, though. My hips speed up once more as I increase my grip on the headboard, desperate to come and keep the sense of pain attached to it, just like last night. “You fuck like a coward,” he snarls, his fingers scissoring inside me as he grabs my chin and wrenches my head around to look at him. “Fuck yourself harder.” He shouts it in my face, his lips contorted into a monster’s guise as he stares me down, watching me pant and drool for something I can’t achieve. “You want this from me? More of this. Prove it, Alana.”
Something about his face drives me onwards. Maybe it’s the way he laves his lips, slowly bridging the distance between us and finally landing them where I want them to be. The draw is instant, sending shockwaves through me as I keep grinding down. My body’s wild and free as I search for stars and eventually let them come. I can see them. They’re coming, driving me into another sensation I’ve not had before him as his tongue urges me on. It’s not painful or debilitating. It’s clarifying. A rush, breaking through the hollow ground of monotony and making me insane with need for more of his touch. My mouth breaks from his, the pain finally building to something I would have thought unobtainable, but it’s not. It’s a prospect breached, a new perspective, and it crashes though my skin, exploding as I feel it hastening through my veins, darkening the blood within them.
It takes me a minute to assimilate the thought as my insides clamp eagerly on nothing but air, leaving me aching and unfulfilled. They throb for something more, no matter how volatile the orgasm. I feel empty, as if I’ve been punished and not given a reprieve for good behaviour even though I came.
“Fuck you,” I cry as I open my eyes and gaze into his, my breath stuttering out around the words as he does nothing but smile in response. It’s wicked and evil, and infinitely more fucking debilitating than any orgasm could ever be. It’s a smile built on facts I don’t want to admit. But his voice, the way he uses it, dirtying every fucking thing he does, it’s all consuming. It makes me filthy. It makes me want to be. It forges him into me whether I like it or not, unable to deny his strength nor try to. His perversions are exactly what I require for now. And as I let the come drip from me, salivating at the thought of more of it and flexing my fingers in the restriction of the cuffs, I glare at his amused face. I’m part ready to scratch it off of him for showing me this, and part adoring him for the emotions he’s produced with only ten minutes worth of work. “Fuck you.”
His smile just increases as I pant in front of him, turning to something some would die for and lessoning my sense of hatred for his arrogance.
“I’ll let you have that one,” he says, his finger still driving in slowly. “You’re cunt’s dirtier when you swear.” Fuck him again. I don’t have a dirty cunt. Actually, perhaps I do at the moment, and just as I’m remembering that, he leans in and lets his mouth linger near mine again. “You’re truly beautiful,” he whispers, his finger slowly pulling from my arse and running gently over the length of my sensitive clit. I snatch my body away before he inflicts more aches, still infuriated, or humiliated, or confused. Perhaps I just feel left hanging, even though I’m not and could quite easily get more if I asked for it. I don’t know. It’s all a riot of reactions I can’t process right now. “You’re a beautifully twisted mess, Alana Williams.”
I still haven’t got much more than a fiery, if not exhausted, ‘fuck you’, so I don’t bother responding to his arrogant claim. I’m not a twisted mess. Well, maybe I am. I don’t know about that either. I just keep glaring until his smile makes me want to smile, too, and then turn my head to look at the handcuffs and my stained fingers in them rather than acknowledge any of his superiority.
“I can’t write this,” I mumble, uneasy at the thought of articulating my feelings.
“Mmm.” It’s not a supportive insertion into my musings.
The bed slumps under his weight, making me tip my eyes back to watch him lying there. His cock flinches on his ridged stomach, probably at my perusal, which makes me want to eat it. And then his hand starts roaming his own skin as he shifts himself about, tempting me further with my blowjob fantasies that I was diverted from last night. I just stare for a while, wondering what he has that I’m drawn to. It’s not just the pain, although that will most definitely take some thought, but it’s more than that. He’s more than that because the rush kept coming, didn’t it? I couldn't stop my constant pull back to the sordid and dirty he was opening up as acceptable. It was all I could think of in the moment, all I could feel. It was him. He did this. He has perverted me, turned me into something barely resembling human. He’s shown me a new path, something above my comprehension. People don't do this to each other. They don't cause pain in the exploration of pleasure. They don't rip shreds out of skin and smile as the blood seeps from battered flesh, licking the crimson drops away before replacing them again. We should have mewled and moaned our way through this now, the same last night, not growled and groaned under the strain he asked for, increasing the ache with every fucking drive into me. And it’ll only get worse. I know that. I can tell by the way he seems unaffected by his work, as if it was only partway done, hardly scratching the surface of his capabilities. There might be emotions involved in all this, love if I’m honest, but it’s tainted with filth, or maybe enhanced by it. All the thoughts make me start questioning everything again. Why? When? Who? I mean, how does this sort of thing start? Is there an introduction to the underground world? How does one even know that’s what you need?
“When did you know?” I ask, perhaps searching for validation that this feeling I now have is okay, that I’ve not turned insane in the short time he’s been handling me.
“Hmm?”
“How old were you when you knew you were different to all the other boys?” Because I am now, too, aren’t I? Different. He’s shown me I am. Maybe I always was and I didn’t know. Normal doesn’t come close
to this. It’s probably why all other men have been non-descript, reasonably easy to leave. Perhaps this is why all my other relationships haven’t worked.
He rests his hand under his head and looks at me, relaxed in his open offering of sexuality and completely immersed in his own superiority. It’s effortlessly intriguing, enough so that I feel the need to let him lead me all the more, regardless of what that could mean.
“Are we having a conversation for your research, or do you genuinely want to know?” he replies, as he looks away from me towards the ceiling.
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Ah, the questions again.” He chuckles a little, his hand dropping to his cock and beginning to roam it casually. “Because if you genuinely want to know, I’ll take you out for dinner and tell you all the gory details so you can learn, but if you just want research options, I’ll test your cunt’s reflexes first. You can learn that way instead.”
Well, what a decision. And, frankly, dinner? We don’t do dinner.
“Are you talking about a date? I’ve told you. I don’t need that.” Although, for whatever reason, I am intrigued with the thought of just talking, especially given my current lack of clothing. It would be nice for this to seem more normal. That thought alone scares the shit out of me as I watch him smile at my confusion, knowing I’m falling with little hope of recovery.
“No. I’m aware you don’t want that.” He rolls onto his side, gazing at my arse as I try to get comfortable. It’s not easy given my wrists are still handcuffed to the bed as I twist and turn about. “But you should eat.”
I frown, wondering when the last time I actually ate was. It makes me look away from him and try to put some context to the last few days, where I’ve been, how long it’s been. I hardly recognise the time of day, let alone how long I’ve been here. And I haven’t texted Bree to let her know I’m okay. In fact, I haven’t contacted my publisher. No one. It’s been like a void of time missing from the real world. I don’t even know what day it is.
“How long?”
“What?”
“The party? Was that yesterday?” Because now he’s mentioned it I want to know. I’ve lost time, not even caring for where it’s gone. And I haven’t typed anything. Not a word since that room. I need to get this all down on paper so I remember. “I need to get back to writing.”
He stands up without another word and walks around the other side of the headboard to unlock the cuffs on my wrists, a casual smile adorning his face.
“Shower and get changed. Your bag’s in the corner of the room.”
“How did that get here?”
“Delaney brought it in last night.”
“Oh.” Seems he’s got everything covered, not that I know who Delaney is. “Okay.”
I rub at my wrists as he shrugs on a pair of trousers and leaves without another word, my stare following him. I suddenly feel odd in the room on my own. The feeling leaves me cold. It’s not the standard sensation delivered when I leave a man. Normally I feel happy to be on my own again after a session, but this time I feel like I’m absolutely alone. Like a part of me just left, leaving me empty.
I shake my head at the perception, trying to dismiss it as ludicrous. I hardly know Blaine, regardless of the joining we seemed to share when he was inside me last night. It wasn’t the same just now. It was less linked, but it still lingers in the air nonetheless, showing me the something I asked for.
The shower revives me a little as my body aches beneath the jets. But yet again it makes me question the sanity of any of this. I hurt, a lot. Everything. Not only do my muscles not know what to do with themselves, my back stings. It’s not until I get out and try to get a glance at it in the mirror that I realise why. Part of it is cut and others are scratched, reddened lines scattered across its surface. Nothing seems deep or permanent, but it’s there anyway, staring back at me and reminding me of the battering I took. It seems strange to me that I’m smiling as I gaze at it, perhaps remembering the passion involved in the act, or the way I spurred him on so that I could come underneath the pain. It’s more likely the memory of him rubbing cream into me when we got back in here last night. His hands were tender, devoted even, offering a softer side of his persona for me to think about as I relaxed further into them and drifted, exhaustion taking over. And then, I suppose, I must have fallen asleep in his arms, his hands still stroking at my back in an act of care. It’s all so bizarre to my mind that I quickly get changed into some jeans and a shirt rather than staring anymore, and then rifle through my bag for a notebook and pen.
In no time at all I’m sitting on the bed, my hands scribbling furiously again and searching for a way of explaining what I’ve been through. There’s so much to write since I last typed, so many words and so little time to get them down, but it slowly begins flowing regardless of the mass of information assaulting my mind. It’s a complete mess if I’m honest, with no clarity of structure, but it’s hammering out again nonetheless. Within a few minutes I feel lightheaded, a slightly sick sensation wracking me. It makes me realise I haven’t had any happy pills for the last few days, something I assume I’m going to need given the amount of material my brain has to cope with. It’s exhausting trying to formulate this in my mind. Drawing maps seems harder without their help clearing the way. The realisation makes me reach into my bag again and begin to rifle through it for the little plastic container. It’s not there. Nowhere to be seen. Anxiety sets in, my heart racing at the thought of them not being available for use. I feel it climbing through me as I frantically search again. I’m not addicted, but I need them. I do. They make everything make sense. They clear the chaos, helping me see straight through all the information coming at me daily. The stories stay contained. The meetings, easy to manage. The constant social media easier to engage with, showing my willingness to please everyone. I can’t be without them. I can’t function properly without them. I definitely can’t deal with Blaine without them. I need my story straight. All my ducks in a row. I need to be controlled and able to manage all this so I can see all the answers. Oh god, where are my pills?
“Stop,” his voice suddenly says from somewhere. I look up, shocked, and find him standing in the doorway, apparently showered and changed into jeans and a jacket. I didn’t even hear him come in. It takes me a minute to find my voice, or perhaps reinstall myself back into reality given my almost hysterical searching, my hand still hovering in my bag. And when I do, I realise I’ve never seen him look so casual. It’s still quite formal, but he looks so much softer. It reminds me of his hands last night. His whole body seems more relaxed, too. And then he smiles, breaking me of my meander around his body and highlighting an extremely handsome face. “Food?”
Oh yes, food. Although, we could always do the handcuff thing again. I turn to face them still dangling on the bed, their sliver glinting in the sunlight, and my mind is suddenly focused on anything but my pills. That was… “Now.”
I find myself smiling at his aggravated tone, suddenly feeling comfortable with its expression, as if it’s simply an extension of his hands. The sensation makes me pull my hand from my bag to scribble the thought immediately, almost ignoring the command so that I can get the facts straight in my head. Well, try to.
“You don’t scare me, Mr. Jacobs,” comes from my mouth, my hand rushing the notes. Not through need to do as I’m told, just because he’s right. I am hungry, ravenous actually.
He mumbles to himself about something as his feet cross the floor to me, but I don’t really hear it. Perhaps it was something about the fact that I should be. I don’t know or care. I’m still too busy scrawling down my path, mind maps beginning to emerge again as I turn the pad sideways and listen to his breathing.
The sudden lifting of my body does make me look up at him, though, yet again smiling as he shrugs me up with little care for my weight.
“Charming,” is my chuckled response, watching the way his frown
descends the moment my body settles into place.
“Trouble,” is all he says as a reply, his frame walking us off though the door and out into the church again. The sight of the place floors me, my mouth hanging open in amazement as I flick my eyes around to gaze at the halos shining in through the stained windows.
“Wow.” There’s light everywhere. It bounces off the stonework, striping its way along the floors and creating patterns. Reds, golds, blues and greens. It’s everywhere, dowsing the huge interior with crescents and shimmering off the metallic statues of saints. “He’s not really a priest, though, right?”
Blaine snorts, moving his arm to accommodate my twisting body as I try to arch around and look behind his back.
“Why, have you sinned?”
“I think I probably have.” He just smiles at me as his fingers dig in to carry me straight through the middle of the space I was kneeling in last night. “Just about there,” I say, pointing at the floor and remembering the way Priest gazed at me as the man carrying me held me down. It brings a frown onto my face, confusing me and making me question why I’m being carried in some show of gentlemanly intent once more.
“Don’t analyse it,” he says, his arms relaxing as he keeps walking. “You overthink it and you’ll drive yourself mad.” Oh. Right. “It’s not like you didn’t enjoy others watching us, is it?”
Mind reader. I don’t suppose I did. Maybe at the time, when it first stated happening, but then it became another part of the experience. And when Blaine backed off from the moment, choosing to walk away from me rather than carry on, it had been Priest that sent me back to him, telling me to goad him back into action.
“Show him what you need,” he’d said, as I looked lost in the middle of the floor and tried covering myself. “Remember your confession. Don’t hide.”
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 28
